


Rest My Weary Bones

by aphoticdepths



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphoticdepths/pseuds/aphoticdepths
Summary: The Lord of Death is not blessed with peaceful sleep.
Kudos: 17





	Rest My Weary Bones

His lord does not sleep easily. Some Primarchs sleep in their armor as their sons do, but Mortarion cannot risk that. Mortarion's sleep had been restless and plagued by nightmares long before the man watching him lost his name and became one of the Deathshroud.

  
Like this, for a moment unarmored, a rebreathing mask attached tank of gas so he might breathe, Mortarion could be mistaken for an invalid on life support. He twists and turns, hands fisting and ripping at the sheets. Mostly the room is only filled with his labored breathing and the hiss of the machine as it supplies the toxic gas into his ruined lungs, but sometimes the Death Lord gives a low moan. Other times, he calls out "Stop" or more often, "Father".

  
To the rest he is a god, made invincible through his very suffering. But a Primarch's lavish suites are more than forty-nine paces and the Deathshroud know he cries out in fear. They do not wake him. They watch silently enough to know how violently he would react, and this is normal. When he does sleep, once every few months, it is always like this.

  
Mortarion writhes and tosses, and as he does the mask slips from his face. His cracked lips part like a landed fish as he for a moment makes a horrible, airless wheeze.

  
The Deathshroud who has given up his name bends and rights the rebreather. Almost before he has even begun, Mortarion's hand flies up and grips the plate on his upper arm with force enough to crack the ceramite. His eyes have opened, filled with the raw panic of a cornered animal. As the mask is righted and he gasps in ragged pants, the panic in his eyes drains, replaced with resentment that anyone-even the ones most loyal to him, who could not tell any other-would see him this weak. The Deathshroud's rerebrace cracks further, the hairlines spreading out from where his Primarch clutches it widening into rifts.

  
Even after Mortarion releases him, for a moment he continues to recover himself, his heavy breathing echoing in the silence. When he speaks, his voice is thin and labored but not any more so than usual. "I have spent enough time on rest," he orders. "My armor."


End file.
